


Visitation

by oloros



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Distant relationship, Drabble, I just wanted to write something bittersweet with my two boys, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oloros/pseuds/oloros
Summary: Chester doesn’t visit often. When he does, it’s quiet.The lines of their bond were beginning to blur, and he wasn’t sure if it was simply his instinct to protect.
Relationships: John Hancock/Male Sole Survivor
Kudos: 16





	Visitation

Lightning lashed angrily at the ground outside with a vibrant green flash. The warmth of radiation struggled to float by his scarred skin and flesh, muffled by the windows of the Old State House. Rain pounded at the windows and the roof, forcing him to pray that the structure would hold for one more night.

The door creaked open and crimson painted his floors in speckles, spraying droplets that dripped through the cracks of the worn floorboards. Where he expected to see Fahrenheit with a head to her belt, he saw a sharp face with freckles all crinkled up in a grimace. Gradually, like he were approaching a stray in the rain, he drifted away from the couch and towards him, knees bent until they touched the ground.

His kneel was reciprocated, and a wordless agreement exchanged as the man slumped forward to Hancock’s chest, sniffing as the fabric of his frock coat tickled his nose.

“Raiders?” Hancock’s voice rolled out smoothly and softly, easy on the ears. Chester’s skin was rough along the arms, covered with lacerations and grooves, unnaturally formed. They weren’t bullet wounds, and the skin didn’t flay from a knife’s blade. When he set sight on his fingers, they were crimson too, though it didn’t shine as boldly as on the floors.

When the extra warmth left him he took the hint to stand, stepping forwards to hold an arm over the injured man’s back. Chester took a few deep breaths before he answered, voice just as quiet as Hancock’s had been, “Ghouls.”

The lacerations revealed themselves for what they really were- bite marks, scratches and symptoms of a mindless animal. Once Chester was secure on his couch, Hancock searched for Stimpaks. Jet, Mentats and Buffout were always on display in his quarters, but he kept a special draw of medical supplies. The Old State House was not only a home but a haven, a place for the drifters cast out by their old homes to curl up and lick their wounds. He knew the feeling far too well to be able to deny them of a warm bed.

Chester’s grimace eased when the needle punctured his skin. Hancock didn’t use Stimpaks too much himself, not unless he was out in the Commons, but he vaguely remembered their feeling. It was like a rainbow after a rainy day, as he’d once heard from a kid in Diamond City, where all the drear and wetness of the rain was forgotten for the brightness a rainbow offered.

“I haven’t seen you for months,” Hancock said, sitting stiffly on the couch and eyeing the Jet on the coffee table in front. The thought was passed off when Chester tugged on his sleeve with a bloody hand, pulling him closer so that the man’s auburn hair brushed against his chin.

“I’m busy, I guess,” Chester said. His voice was airy, a shell of what it would normally be. “I’ve got a missin’ son, remember?”

Hancock snorted. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Chester never spoke about Shaun. Hancock had only learnt his name through chance, lingering close enough to catch his conversation with Nick Valentine. He travelled with the man often, one of the only humans in the Commonwealth that didn’t mind the presence of the synth. Between Chester’s visits to Goodneighbor, every month or so, he would always be accompanied. It irked him. Maybe there was an innate desire, a joke to be made about missing out, but the right words never drifted his way.

“I’m always thinkin’ about comin’ here though… shootin’ up with you.” Chester nuzzled into his collar. Similar to synths, he had no qualms about ghouls, either. There was no regard for their wretched bodies or their black, dead eyes. When Hancock’s eyes trailed the marks along his arms, separating his _whole, healthy_ skin, there was an essence of guilt- second-hand, but guilt all the same.

“Ain’t wise to hang around a ghoul, remember?” Hancock said. “We could eat ya at any moment.”

The drowsiness was claiming him quicker than he could speak, Chester’s only response being a wispy chuckle. Making no effort to remove himself from Hancock’s side, his head slacked as he drifted off, leaving no room for movement unless Hancock wanted to stir him again.

He didn’t.

He rested his head atop Chester’s and crossed one leg over the other, shaking it gently to the tune on the radio.

Every visit was under a different drama. Chester retreated to Goodneighbor like an abandoned dog to its home, and Hancock took him out of the rain every time. To help someone was the moral quality he lived by; he would never turn one down. But something told him Chester’s case was different. It had always been since he’d come back fresh from robbing his storeroom with a smug smile under rose-tinted shades.

“ _I’ve got heartaches by the number…”_


End file.
